


Lucky

by badmagician



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Blow Jobs, First Time Blow Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Minor Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 23:20:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17150969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badmagician/pseuds/badmagician
Summary: Billy's frustratingly injured. Goody finally steps up to lend a helping hand.





	Lucky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nonesane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonesane/gifts).



Billy's not sure what to do without the use of his hands, and right now he does not have the use of them. 

The job should've been a simple one except the rifle he was using blew up in his grip - he knows he's lucky he didn't lose both hands or his whole damn head and not just get singed around the edges, but for the moment he doesn't feel lucky. His hands are bandaged up and the doc says he'll be right as rain or some such other happy platitude that does nothing much to soothe Billy's ire, but the fact is burned hands make life difficult. And, to top it all off, for the last three days since it happened, he's had to rely on Goody to take care of him. 

It's not that Goody's not up to the task, at least not theoretically, 'cause when he's sober Goodnight Robicheaux is the only man he'd ever think to ask. The problem is, these days Goody's drunk more often than he's sober, and Billy finds him idling at the bottom of a bottle. He doesn't mind, not usually, 'cause he understands it even if he wishes it weren't so. But, right now, Billy needs Goody's hands, and he sure as hell can't lend him his own. 

Some nights they share a bed just 'cause it's cheaper that way and, given the state of their financial situation more often than it's not, it's more or less the only choice available. Last night was meant to be a night like that except that Goody didn't come back in from the gambling hall he'd haunted down the street. Billy spent an hour feeling good and angry, and an hour feeling obscurely concerned, then he laid awake in bed and told himself he wasn't going out there just to find him. He wasn't going out, 'cause chances were Goody was just dead drunk and not actually dead. 

Last night, Billy slept in all his clothes, though he managed to kick off both his boots. This morning, Billy's struggled through his breakfast, and now he can't get his fucking boots back on. And, right on cue, Goody waltzes right in through the door. But the thing is, he doesn't look drunk. He doesn't even look hungover. And he's carrying a steaming jug of water in his hands, enigma that he sometimes is. 

Billy doesn't ask him where he was. Billy doesn't ask him why he's come back now and not last night and not three days from now. he doesn't say a word as Goody comes across the room to where he's sitting, at the table by the window with all his clothes rucked up from dishevelled sleep, and he takes his wrists into his hands. All he does is frown and let him do it, and let him unravel his damn bandages because he'd say that they were fit to all fall off him anyway. He sits in silence while Goody cleans his burns with the freshly boiled water, as much as that smarts with every touch. He watches him dab on the ointment the doc they paid too much for gave him, then he wraps his hands back up again, all fresh and clean. 

When he's done, Goody unbuttons Billy's waistcoat and then he helps him out of it. When he's done with that, he unbuttons Billy's shirt and helps him out of that, too. Wordlessly, ridiculously still in his coat if not his hat that he's discarded by the door, Goody finds a cloth and starts to wash him down while Billy stands himself up by the foot of the bed. He washes him carefully, from his neck down to his wrists, from his collarbones down to his navel, from his nape to the small of his back, and Billy lets him though he has no damn clue where this is coming from and much less where it's going to. He's just aware that Goody's hands are there against his skin almost as much as the cloth he's holding is. He's aware that Goody just can't look him in the eye, though that's never been a problem he's had before now. 

When he's done with that, he unbuckles Billy's belt. He strips him out of his pants, too, and every scrap of clothing he has left on him that he couldn't take off of himself, till he's standing there naked and pretty damn confused. It's been three days and he's had to coax Goody into so much as helping him out of his coat, so this is something new and strange, even if he can't claim he has complaints about it. Thus far, he hasn't even managed to get him to light him a damn cigarillo, and now he's washing him. 

Goody crouches, balancing poorly as he runs the cloth over one of Billy's thighs, then one of his calves, then one of his ankles. He reaches for the other side and does the same, and Billy watches him quietly as he sets about it. There's a point where Goody finally takes off his coat then rolls up his sleeves, like getting water in his cuffs spurred him into action, but then he sets back to it, rubbing the cloth over Billy's bare backside, over his abdomen, between his thighs. Goody blushes as he takes Billy's balls in the palm of his hand with only the damp, flimsy cloth keeping skin away from skin. Goody blushes harder when he wraps his cloth-covered hand around Billy's cock and strokes him, while he's still down there on his knees on dusty floorboards. 

It's right then that Billy understands. And, once he's understood, he can't help the way his cock stiffens up so quickly against Goody's hand. He watches Goody's eyes widen as it does. He watches him look up at him before he can remind himself he shouldn't. 

Goody's been avoiding him because he wants this, and he's been scared that it'll show. Frankly, Billy's just surprised he never asked before; he wouldn't've said no. 

"Can you help me with this?" Billy asks, straightforwardly, and he gestures with one bandaged hand at his cloth-wrapped cock that's erect in Goody's hand. 

"Sure, I guess," Goody replies, frowning up at him. "You sure about that?"

Billy raises his brows. "I burned my hands, not my head," he says, and Goody snorts at him, amused. And that's better, 'cause that's Goody and not the silent washerman who seems to've come back in his place. 

When Goody ducks his head and licks the tip of Billy's newly-sprung erection, that really wasn't what Billy meant at all - he expected a hand and not a mouth, and all that he can do is draw a loud and sudden breath. Goody looks up at him from his knees on the floor and Billy sits himself back down in the chair by the lace-curtained window, his thighs spread wide and his cock jutting up hard and proud; he guesses he should feel more exposed than he does right now, but the fact is Goody could crawl straight on inside his skin and he wouldn't feel any stranger for it. Goody could bend him down over the table, slap his ass and call him Betsy if that was what he wanted, and Billy doubts he'd mind too much. Goody could fuck him. Goody could ride him. Billy knows he'd just say yes. 

As it is, Goody sucks him. He's not great at it 'cause Billy guesses he might just lack experience, but the fact is Billy doesn't care too much. Goody's mouth is on him, sucking, not quite desperate with it but so nearly there, and all that Billy can do is try not to moan and rouse the neighbors as he watches him. He'd like to touch him but he can't, so the only thing he's got to show how good it feels is the way that his breath hitches, and the way that his hips rock. 

When he comes, Goody swallows, then he rinses his mouth with a swig from a nearby whisky bottle. He smiles wryly and Billy gestures at the bottle so Goody stands and brings it to his mouth and tilts; when a little escapes, Goody only pauses for a second then he ducks to lick it up from Billy's chest. The surprise isn't that Goody's drinking now, when it's not even noon, just that he was sober when he got back from who knows where. It turns out Goody's sense of daring comes out of sobriety, not just from Dutch courage. 

"Did you sleep last night?" Billy asks him, when the bottle's stoppered again and back down on the table. 

"Not a wink," Goody replies. "I had a lot of thoughts to think." 

Billy shakes his head at him despairingly. "Then you'd best come to bed," he says. "I could use a hand. But." He looks him up and down appraisingly. "I don't recommend sleeping in your clothes, Goody." 

Goody snickers. When they go to bed, neither of them's wearing a stitch, and that's just fine with Billy. It seems it's fine with Goody, too.

So maybe Billy can't feel lucky that he's burned and bandaged and having a hard time fending for himself because of it. 

But that doesn't mean he can't just plain feel lucky, at least with Goody by his side.


End file.
